


Truth or Davey: A Dutchie Story (PART TWO)

by CraveyQueen1



Category: Newsies, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M, Nineties, Suburban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CraveyQueen1/pseuds/CraveyQueen1





	Truth or Davey: A Dutchie Story (PART TWO)

Davey didn’t risk looking through the glove box for his map of the city as he tried to remember how to get to Crutchie’s house. He hoped his lefts were the right lefts and his rights were the right rights. He pulled onto a familiar street. He set off a neighbor’s floodlight, showing him the house he’d visited for a Friends marathon months ago.

He parked the car on the street and ran to the door. He hit the doorbell the moment he remembered he wasn’t supposed to. He could hear Daisy barking like the house was full of squirrels.

“Sorry!” he shouted through the door. He knocked once as if it was an undo button.

“It’s fine Daisy!” Ms. Morris opened the door. She blocked Daisy, trying to run outside like the yard was full of squirrels. “Davey?”

“Hi.”

Daisy looked up. She saw Davey and retreated into the house. Davey wondered for a second if Crutchie had told her what happened.

“I just talked to you on the phone.”

“Yes, about that, I have to talk to Crutchie. Please.”

Ms. Morris’ lips pressed into a straight line. “He said he was going to sleep a few minutes ago.”

There was a pulling at the back of Davey’s throat. He was sure whatever he said next would be less words, more croak. He cleared his throat. “Can you please check if he’s awake?”

She sighed. “Alright. Come in, it’s cold.”

Davey stepped into the hallway and Ms. Morris closed the door behind them.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Just a moment.” She disappeared down the hall.

Davey tried to distract himself by staring at anything, from Ms. Morris’ roller skates to the visors and bucket hats on the coat rack.

Ms. Morris came back. “He said you could come in.”

“Thanks.”

Davey found Crutchie’s room. He spent a good couple seconds deciding whether to knock. He cracked open the door. “Hey?”

Crutchie was on the bed, fiddling around with his Gameboy. “Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Davey stepped in like he was approaching an ancient treasue and didn't want to set off any traps.

Crutchie didn’t look up from the game.

There was about a minute where Davey wasn’t sure what to say or what to do with his hands.

"Are you okay?"

Crutchie shrugged. Noises kept coming from the Gameboy.

Davey walked closer to the bed. "I wa-"

"Dave."

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to apologize. The guys do prank calls all the time."

"I'm not here to apologize."

Crutchie paused and put down the game.

They looked at each other till Davey gave Crutchie a fragile smile. "I'm not sorry for asking you out. I'm sorry for not doing it sooner."

Crutchie looked up. Before he could figure out what to say his lungs figured it was the best time to start coughing. He sat up, his hands pushing against the mattress.

Davey rushed over, picking up the bucket on the floor. He sat onside the bed and held it to Crutchie’s face.

As the coughing died down Davey put a hand on Crutchie’s back. He rubbed small circles till Crutchie's breathing was back to normal. “You okay?”

Crutchie nodded. “Yeah.”

Davey pulled his hand away and put down the bucket. “Are we okay?”

Crutchie smiled at him. “Yeah.”

“Are we still… do you still want to….”

Crutchie poked Davey in the stomach. “Yes, Dave!”

Davey grinned and nodded. “Cool.” He shifted in his spot. He moved his hand towards Crutchie’s face like he was placing a glass figurine on a shelf. With a hand on Crutchie’s cheek, he moved closer.

Crutchie closed his eyes. They flew open. “Wait!”

“Sorry.” Davey sat back up.

“I’m still contagious.”

“Right.”

“Like, you should go wash your hands, contagious.”


End file.
